A Night of Falling Stars

On the evening of the twenty-fourth day of the twelfth month in the Zhou calendar, in the year 645 BCE, an official court historian of the state of Song was performing his nightly duties, gazing upwards into the vast expanse of the night sky. What he witnessed would be etched into the historical record. The heavens above erupted in a spectacular and brilliant display—a meteor shower of uncommon intensity. Amidst the streaking lights, five large meteorites, their cores not fully consumed by atmospheric friction, crashed to earth within the borders of Song, their impact illuminating the night with an eerie, fiery glow.

The following morning, the historian presented his report to Duke Xiang of Song. The duke, upon hearing the news and after the meteorites were retrieved, was overjoyed. He interpreted this celestial event not as a random act of nature, but as a profound and auspicious omen from heaven. Lacking any astronomical knowledge, he could not comprehend that this was a relatively common phenomenon; he saw only divine intervention. The potential danger was lost on him—had a larger asteroid struck, it could have wrought devastation upon his state, a cataclysmic event akin to those that wiped out ancient creatures.

The Art of Flattery and the Backward-Flying Birds

As often happens in courts where a ruler’s favor is sought, sycophants were quick to reinforce the duke’s belief. Soon, reports arrived claiming that six yì birds had been seen flying backwards over the Song capital. This was a blatant falsehood, a physical impossibility that defied all logic. Yet, Duke Xiang, eager for confirmation, embraced this second “omen” with unwavering faith. To add a layer of official legitimacy to his interpretations, he summoned Shu Xing, a high-ranking minister from the royal court of Zhou who was then visiting Song.

Shu Xing was a shrewd and experienced courtier. He understood perfectly what Duke Xiang wished to hear. When asked for his analysis of the two strange occurrences, he offered a carefully crafted, ambiguous prophecy: “My lord, you will gain the allegiance of the feudal lords under heaven.” This vague pronouncement, designed to placate the duke without making a concrete commitment, had a devastating effect. In private, Shu Xing confessed to his attendants that he was merely humoring the duke, telling him what he wanted to hear. For Duke Xiang, however, these words from a representative of the Zhou royal house were tantamount to a divine endorsement. They plunged him headlong into a fantasy of grandeur.

A Dream of Hegemony Ignited

Bolstered by this “authoritative” interpretation, Duke Xiang began to envision a future for himself mirroring that of his hero, Duke Huan of Qi, the first recognized Hegemon, or Ba, who had led a coalition of states in the name of the Zhou king. His ambition ignited, Duke Xiang went to the ancestral temple to make offerings to his forebears and to declare his soaring aspirations. This temple was not solely dedicated to the previous dukes of Song; it also housed the spirit tablets of the kings of the Shang Dynasty. The rulers of Song, bearing the surname Zi, were direct descendants of the Shang royal house. As Duke Xiang gazed upon these ancient tablets, a fierce determination burned within him. He led his courtiers in singing a potent and politically charged hymn—the “Ode to the Mysterious Bird” from the Classic of Poetry.

The lyrics of the ode were a powerful evocation of Shang legitimacy and divine right:

By Heaven’s mandate, the Mysterious Bird descended, and gave birth to the Shang,
Dwelling in the vast lands of Yin.
The ancient Lord commanded Wu Tang [Tang the Victorious], to rectify the domains in all four directions.

He gave his charge to the lords, until he possessed all nine provinces.
The successive kings of Shang, received the mandate without fail, down to the grandson Wu Ding.
The grandson Wu Ding, was a king who faced no defeat.

Ten chariots with dragon banners, bore offerings of grain.
The state’s borders stretched a thousand li, where the people found their rest.

He began his domain to the four seas; from the four seas they came to acknowledge him,
They came in multitudes.
The capital was bounded by the river; the Yin received the mandate, all was fitting,
And all blessings were upon them.

This song celebrated the mythical birth of the Shang founder, Xie, from a mysterious bird’s egg, and glorified the dynasty’s heaven-sanctioned rule over all under heaven. It was a direct assertion of a mandate that had been stripped from them by the Zhou.

A Minister’s Warning and a Duke’s Defiance

After the hymn concluded, an exhilarated Duke Xiang ordered his ministers to spread the song throughout every corner of Song. One minister, alarmed by the implications, nervously cautioned him: “My lord, we only sing this in secret, during sacrifices to the Shang kings. If it is spread abroad and reaches the ears of the Son of Heaven of Zhou, it will be considered an act of rebellion!”

Duke Xiang’s response was swift and defiant. “So what?” he retorted. “Since the Zhou court moved east to Luoyi, the rites have collapsed and music has become corrupt. The feudal lords rise up on their own, and the power of the Son of Heaven has faded. For three hundred years, we Shang people have been oppressed by the Zhou. Now is the perfect time for our restoration! Everyone in Song must know that we will reclaim the glory our ancestors lost!” His ministers could only stare in astonishment at his audacious declaration. This moment revealed a deep-seated historical grievance that had festered for centuries.

The Weight of Three Hundred Years of History

The roots of this resentment stretched back to the very foundation of the Zhou Dynasty. After King Wu of Zhou defeated the last Shang king, Di Xin , at the Battle of Muye and overthrew the dynasty, he faced a monumental problem: what to do with the vast population of Shang loyalists. A policy of outright extermination risked provoking relentless rebellion.

Instead, the Zhou adopted a policy of “restoring fallen states and continuing extinguished lineages,” a strategy of appeasement aimed at co-opting the conquered. They allowed the Shang people to re-establish themselves as a state. The territory designated for this new Shang state was strategically and symbolically significant: it comprised two areas. One was Yin, the final Shang capital near modern-day Anyang, Henan, north of the Yellow River. The other was Bo, an earlier Shang capital near modern-day Shangqiu, Henan, south of the Yellow River. These were the heartlands of the former dynasty, a surprisingly generous concession.

The question of leadership for this new state, named Song, was delicate. After King Zhou’s death, three key figures remained from the Shang royal family: Wu Geng, the son of King Zhou; Ji Zi, the king’s uncle; and Wei Zi, the king’s half-brother. King Wu of Zhou initially favored Ji Zi, who was renowned for his wisdom and integrity. The historical accounts suggest that King Wu even sought Ji Zi’s counsel on governance, and some traditions hold that Ji Zi later founded the state of Joseon in Korea. However, the most politically expedient choice for ensuring stability was Wei Zi. As a half-brother who had reportedly criticized King Zhou’s tyranny, Wei Zi could be presented as a virtuous alternative to the deposed tyrant, a Shang leader acceptable to both his own people and their Zhou overlords.

Thus, the state of Song was established with Wei Zi as its first duke. It was granted the exalted rank of gong , higher than most other feudal states, and was charged with maintaining the sacred rites for the Shang ancestors. On the surface, it was a position of honor. In reality, Song was a “guest state” within the Zhou feudal system, perpetually watched, its loyalty always in question. The Zhou kings had effectively neutralized the Shang threat by giving them a state but denying them real power, keeping them contained within their ancestral lands under the watchful eye of Zhou allies.

The Unraveling of a Fantasy

Duke Xiang’s ambition, fueled by misinterpreted omens and ancestral pride, was about to collide with harsh political reality. The world of the 7th century BCE was indeed one of “collapse of rites and music,” but it was not a vacuum waiting to be filled by a restored Shang dynasty. It was a brutal arena where powerful states like Jin, Chu, and Qi vied for dominance. Duke Xiang of Song possessed neither the military strength nor the political acumen of a true Hegemon.

His subsequent actions would prove disastrous. He attempted to intervene in the succession disputes of other states and engaged in military campaigns to assert his authority. Most famously, his rigid adherence to an anachronistic code of chivalrous warfare—such as refusing to attack an enemy before they had fully formed their battle lines—led to a catastrophic defeat at the Battle of Hong in 638 BCE. He was severely wounded in the battle and died the following year from his injuries. His dream of hegemony died with him, exposed as a folly built on hubris and a misreading of both the heavens and the political landscape.

Legacy of an Omen

The story of Duke Xiang of Song is more than a tale of one man’s failed ambition. It is a poignant chapter in the long narrative of the Zhou Dynasty’s slow decline. It illustrates how the weakening of central authority created space for grandiose dreams and dangerous miscalculations. Furthermore, it highlights the enduring power of cultural memory and historical grievance. The Shang identity, carefully preserved through rituals and songs like the “Ode to the Mysterious Bird,” remained a potent force centuries after the dynasty’s fall.

The incident also offers a timeless lesson on the perils of confirmation bias and the flattery of courtiers. Duke Xiang did not seek truth; he sought validation. He heard what he wanted to hear, from his own officials and from the visiting Zhou minister, and in doing so, he steered his state toward ruin. The falling stars and the mythical birds were neutral events; it was their interpretation, shaped by desire and ambition, that赋予ed them with world-altering significance. The true omen was not in the sky, but in the heart of a duke who longed to reclaim a lost mandate, a longing that ultimately proved to be his undoing.